"Honestly Gordon, I didn't do anything. She's clearly ready to face some stuff and I just happened to meet her on the day she needed a name."
"Well, I don't quite see it like that but I'll leave it because I can see you're embarrassed. So, fancy something crude?"
"Excuse me?"
Did he really say that? What it really going to be this easy to lure The Gardener into my flowerbed?
"A crudités, do you fancy a crudités, Darla?"
It was then I noticed yet another from the Greek army of naked blue people circling us with a tray of raw vegetables and selection of dips. Bugger.
"Hmm, fabulous,” I said, turning my attention to the food and trying not to pick up any root vegetables for fear of giving the game away.
“I'm starving! Anita and I didn't have time to grab anything to eat this evening."
"No, me neither. Hey listen, I'm tired and a bit drunk, do you want to get out of here and get some Thai takeaway? We could take it back to my place, I’m not too far from here and these things bore me unless I’m out on the pull.”
Damn. So he wasn’t out to get laid. Was he trying to tell me he found me as attractive as tripe? That there was no way on earth there’d be anything going down tonight except green chicken curry? Still! He was inviting me back to his bachelor pad, that couldn't be bad.
"Yeah, well I guess we"ve got all the photos that we need and, um, I am pretty hungry. Thai sounds great but just let me go and tell Anita that we"re leaving."
I eventually found her out the back, behind a plastic Corinthian column that was apparently meant to look like the ruins of the Parthenon, she was draped across some big blonde guy that I vaguely recognised from one of those home shows where a bunch of people come round and rip out your garden to whack in a gazebo and build a sundeck. All in about three hours including tea breaks. I wonder what happened to Thorpie. Guess he won’t be round for breakfast then. Shame.
“Daaaarrrrla!” She slurred when I tapped her shoulder. “I’m having the best time! Hey, meet my new friend, I call him Adonis...” She leaned towards me, one arm still around the builder guy’s strong neck, “...that’s ‘cause I can’t remember his real name,” she whispered conspiratorially, as though Adonis was suddenly deaf or something. Although a quick glance at his dilated pupils and vague smile suggested she wasn’t far wrong. There was a lot more than apple martini and goat’s cheese whirling through that man’s brain.
“Honey, I’m going off to grab something to eat with Gordon, will you be ok?”
“Shuuuuure! I’m having the best time! See you at home.”
“Ok, but I’m going to give you a cab charge Anita, ok? And I’ll write our address in it and sign it so when you’re ready to go home, just walk out the entrance, there’ll be a line of taxis waiting right outside, give the driver the cab charge and all you’ll have to do is write in the fare when you get home. Can you do that Neets?” I asked her in a voice I usually reserved for four year olds. Not that I’d actually spoken to anyone under the age of 21 for about eight years.
“Jeesh Darla! Course I can, I’m not that drunk. You make me sound like shuch a lush,” she said, slipping the cab charge into her bra. “We’ll be ok won’t we Adonis?” She puckered up and leaned in to give him a big kiss on the mouth. But the change in weight distribution was more than Adonis could cope with and the pair of them crashed to the ground. Where they lay still for a second before bursting into giggles.
I walked away shaking my head wearily. Luckily Anita was a big girl with a black belt in Karate who’d spent three months backpacking through Outer Mongolia. I was confident she’d be ok in central Sydney, even with a drugged-up chippie in a toga.
Weaving my way through the crowd, I searched for Gordon’s face but when I spotted him he wasn’t alone. Talia the salsa slapper from Campbelltown had moved in for the kill and was working her long chocolate limbs for all she was worth. From what I could see she was using every cheap trick in the Flirting 101 handbook and she was performing them with practised skill and flair. There was the lip-licking, the coy hair-twirling, the swaying hips, the double whammy of raising her arm to push her glossy black hair back while simultaneously pushing her chest forward; the mock-shy lowering of the eyes followed by the brazen stare and - the piece de resistance - drawing her thumb across her lower lip while never breaking the stare. Damn but she was good! This wasn’t your common or garden body language, this was body screaming. She may as well have written ‘fuck me now, anyway you want Big Boy’ across the top of her breasts in thick black Texta.
Talia noticed me first. Her eyes became hooded lids and I swear there might have even been a hint of lip curl. What on earth was her problem? I wasn’t just totally out of her league; I wasn’t even based in the same universe. Billions of light years divided us yet for some reason she was acting like I was a threat. Oh I wish.
“Gorrrdon, your sweet friend is back. Hello again my dear, it was Doris wasn’t it?
“No Talia, this is my friend Darla, ok?” Gordon said icily. “It rhymes with parlour, you know, just like the one the Black Widow tries to lure the fly into so she can suck out it’s life and leave it as nothing but a husk before moving onto her next victim.”
Bloody hell. I didn’t think this was really about how to pronounce my name. For a second there was a highly awkward silence while Talia threw Gordon a look of spiked frost. One which he returned at full strength I was happy to see.
“Darla. Rhymes with parlour. Like the Black Widow’s. Thank you so much Gorrrdon, I doubt I’ll forget that now. Well,” she said, pulling her soft red lips back to show us her teeth. “I’m supposed to dining with Russell and Danielle later this evening so, if you’ll excuse me...really love to meet you Deela.”
And, whoosh, she was gone, into thin air, just like Samantha’s mother does in Bewitched, a woman who always called Samantha’s husband Derwood when his name was Darren. The similarities were astounding, Talia was obviously a witch! I told my theory to Gordon who laughed quietly and said something like, ‘well, that would explain a lot’.
“So, shall we go get that Thai?” I asked, trying to pull him back from whichever evil world Talia had left him in. But it was no use. The witch had left a spell on him.
“Look Darla, I’m really sorry but can we raincheck? I’m suddenly not feeling very sociable, I really am sorry. It’s seeing Talia again. I won’t go into it all now, I’ll tell you the story another time, lets just say she knows how to mess with my head. I think I should just go home and go to bed.”
Damn! Damn the bitch and her drop dead looks!
“That’s fine Gordon!” I chirped like a Smurf on speed. “I’m pretty tired too, lets just call it a night. I’ll talk to you tomorrow about where we should go for our next exciting and glamorous instalment of A Day in your Life.”
“Cool, thanks,” he said, leaning in to kiss me on the cheek. For one glorious split second my face was pressed into his soft warm neck. He smelt of expensive aftershave, musk and pure sex. A pang of desire shot through my stomach and made a beeline for my vagina. But he was already gone, launching himself through the crowd; he looked back and gave me a quick wave just before diving through the exit.
I jumped in a cab and hurried home for a catch up with my dear old friend, Big Black Ben.
Chapter 15: Attack of the Fat Monster
The alarm clock shattered the silence with the news it was 7am and time to get my arse out of bed. I groaned and carefully moved my head, checking for signs of a hangover. A bit tender but could be worse. On the pillow next to me was Big Black Ben.
“Morning Ben, thanks for last night you big hunk.”
He didn’t reply. Obviously the strong, silent type. Pulling the doona back, I swung my legs onto the floor and walked through to the bathroom. The very first thing I had done every morning for the last 25 years was weigh myself after having gone to the loo. I hated being anywhere that didn’t have bathroom scales and once took my own set on a two month backpacki
ng trip around India because there was no way I could go that long without weighing myself. Typically, I’d ended up being three kilos heavier by the time I got home while my travelling partner had dropped three dress sizes due to an almost fatal case of Dengue Fever brought on by a dip in the Ganges in Varanasi, lucky cow. I’d drunk mouthfuls of the filthy stuff but nothing, not even a bit of diarrhoea. It just wasn’t right.
I pulled my nightie off over my head and threw it on the floor then went through the usual routine of testing the scales about six times with my foot to make sure the marker was directly over the black line going through the big zero. Then I slowly stepped on and waited for the numbers to stop moving.
Fuck. I was half a kilo heavier than yesterday. Half a fucking kilo? Where the hell did that come from? Christ, I hardly ate anything yesterday. The black cloud returned to envelope me.
Grabbing at the flab around my stomach, I inspected myself in the mirror.
‘Fat, fat, fat! Look at all that fat! You’re disgusting.’
Well, that was today shot. And it was only 7.05am.
Chapter 16: Caught!
The woman handed her money to the woman behind the counter at her local newsagency and turned straight to the social pages while she waited for her change. Sure enough, there he was in the centre of the two page picture spread showing Sydney’s movers and shakers at maximum schmooze volume. And he had his arm around some girl. That was different. He was often photographed with beautiful women but he was rarely holding anyone as closely as he was holding this girl. A coil of hate starting rising like acidic bile up the woman’s throat. Who was she? The woman scanned the text for a name and soon found what she needed to know.
Chapter 17: Fake tits and navel gazing
Dear Darla
I’ve been single for over two years now and am beginning to think I’ll end up a sad, lonely spinster. I don’t think I’m ugly but guys just don’t seem to be interested in getting serious with me. What am I doing wrong? I’m 17. Nadia, WA
Dear Nadia,
You’re not doing anything wrong apart from being way too young to be worrying about settling down with Mr Right! You have years of fun and dating in front of you. Don't you want to travel or live overseas? Go to university? Find your passion? Realise your life’s purpose? The only thing you should be worried about now is what you want out of life (and please don’t tell me that marrying some bloke called Bazza or Gazza is pretty much it). So relax! Why are you so desperate to get serious with a guy? There’s plenty of time. I met my life partner Brad while I was at uni, he was studying architecture. We were both 24 but even that was pretty young, judging by my friends, most of whom didn’t start settling down till their early thirties. Take a deep breath and stop worrying; it’s way too early to start collecting cats just yet.
I stopped typing and let out a deep breath. Poor old Nadia. Putting herself on the shelf at just 17. Christ, what cruel mix of DNA or chemicals in the female brain makes us so damned tragic? Desperate for male love and approval because somehow that will prove to the world and to ourselves that we are worthy and have some value. Worthy of what or who for godssake? We’re so desperate for this approval that we’re queuing up to have our breasts sliced open so that sacs of toxic fluid can be inserted under our skins. All so our tits look that bit perkier in those tight t-shirts. Then we’re happily paying thousands to have poison injected in our foreheads for a smooth brow. Do we really believe those lines between our eyes will be the deciding factor in whether we get married and live happily ever after? Or stay married by stopping our husbands from running off with their latest dewy eyed young intern. Do we really believe that the key to happiness is big fat lips, pumped full of collagen? All the while, women in the third world are watching their babies die of starvation and disease while western multinational companies make billions from stripping their land of natural resources. Companies run by men who have wives and mistresses that spend this money on filling their chests with silicon and having the fat ripped from thighs by millionaire surgeons who, in turn have wives and mistresses that think $5,000 on the latest fucking handbag from Louis Vuitton is a bargain, even though they’ve already got about 137 handbags! It’s all too fucking tragic.
I let out a long sigh. Yeah, yeah Darla, very smug, very righteous. You’re a fine one to talk. Who has spent the last 25 years thinking there was nothing in her life more crucial, more important than losing a few kilos? Who would have happily turned her back on a boatload of refugees in return for five kilos magically disappearing from her body. Who has swallowed the bullshit about it being these extra kilos that are the one and only thing keeping her from a full and happy life with a man who adores her? Who is it that thinks she’s a fucking martyr because she gives 15 bucks a month to Amnesty International but who happily pays $80 for a small bottle of vitamins which just might -- but no guarantees -- help her body burn fat more efficiently? Yep, Darl my love, it’s you.
God! Could I be any more fucking depressed? Around me the other inmates of Lush! mag were starting to pack their bags -- clutch purses to be more precise -- and leave for the day. Mands and Kat were discussing the logistics of getting to the Sony Music bash they were off to, cab charge or Kat’s car? Sony was throwing yet another bash at some tres cool inner city bar to launch the debut CD of their latest, ‘will be really huge’ artist. I’d been to seven CD launches in the last month, all different record companies, all claiming that this artist really was the next Madonna/Foo Fighters/Norah Jones. But nine times out of ten, you’d never hear of these people again after the first CD, and you had about as much chance of picking which of the ten was going to be the magic one as winning the big one with a two dollar Scratchee.
In the other corner, Roxy, the beauty editor, was at her desk re-doing her already perfect make-up and letting out a stream of filthy expletives about having to spend yet another evening at a dinner and drinks soiree hosted by some giant cosmetics company, tonight it was La Femme. Much of Roxy’s job was about schmoozing and charming these big names in the world of beauty products so that they’d keep spending the big bucks with Lush! rather than our competitors like MetroGirl (‘pack of whores’) or Isobella (‘smug cows who couldn’t style a cushion’). In return for their dollars, we’d basically sold our souls to La Femme and its cohorts. We’d regularly run stories like, ‘Top Ten Must-Have Moisturisers’, but instead of really being a story about the ten best new moisturisers on the market offering value for money, it was actually a list of the top advertisers in Lush!. And you’d never, ever see a story in the mag questioning the ethics of testing lipsticks on rabbits or suggesting that perhaps dry skin on your elbows might not be the biggest disaster in the world. Lordy no! Assuring women that they are fine as they are doesn’t make money for companies peddling beauty products so instead we suggest to women that perhaps their eyes don’t sparkle enough, or maybe their skin isn’t soft or tanned enough. That their hair colour isn’t brilliant enough. Their teeth aren’t white enough. Enough for what? Enough to get a man. Enough to get on in their career. Because we’re all too well aware that fat, ugly women don’t earn as much or get as far in their careers as women who are ‘easy on the eye’. Unfair? Fuck yes, but what you gonna do? Boy, I really am in a nasty mood. What’s brought on this attack of self-loathing? The scales this morning? My missed chance with one Gordon Worsley last night? Who knows but thank God I’m in therapy.
Right! I’m going to take myself home and open a bottle of Merlot. Just the thing to wash down the two packets of chocolate biscuits, bags of Liquorice Allsorts, and chocolate peanuts, large box of Ferrero Rocher and three chocolate creme eggs that are hidden in my sock drawer and which were all coming out tonight while Anita was at her Gran's in Ashfield. It was lucky I hardly ever wore socks; there was no room for them.
Chapter 18: Butcherlerette
‘Dearest Gordon,’ the girl wrote carefully at the top of the thick, cream writing paper. It wasn’t cheap stuff either because she believed Gordon deser
ved quality.
‘Hi again, how’s it going? Well, you probably remember from my letter last week that it was my birthday yesterday. I’m 36! I had hoped we might be able to go out for a romantic dinner with champagne but I guess you were busy. In fact I know you were! I saw you in the papers the next day going into that swanky party at the MCA with some hack from Lush! magazine. You could’ve invited me you know, I’ve got some nice dresses. Maybe next time? I guess you had to go with that mag hag as part of your job, publicity and all that. I certainly can’t believe you’d cheat on me with someone like her.’
‘Hey Andy, whatchudoin’?’
The woman stopped writing and looked up to see an obese, sweaty, red-faced man of about 20 wheezing in her direction. He was wearing a big white overcoat, which was covered in red, brown and yellow stains, and white gumboots. In his hand was a mop.
She forced her face into a smile.
‘Hello Harry, I’m writing a letter to my boyfriend. You know, the one I told you about.’
‘Aw yeah, him off the telly eh Andy?’ The large young man replied. ‘That doctor bloke what’s in that show comes on after Jerry Springer.’
‘That’s the guy Harry. My Gordon.’
The young man looked troubled for a moment. He glanced down at his gumboots and a pink rash spread across his cheeks. He looked at the woman in front of him and wished he had the guts to touch her long glossy, chestnut hair. But he was afraid she’d get angry and yell at him.
“Well, he’s really lucky Andy,” the man mumbled. “You’re so beautiful. I wish you was my girlfriend.”
“Aw you’re so sweet Harry, thank you!” Andy checked that no one else was standing close enough to overhear and lowered her voice. “But y’know we can still have our secret time when you’ve got the money don’t you Harry? It’s fine until Gordon and I get married, then we’ll have to stop. But it’s got to be our secret, just you and me, ok?”
The Year I Went Pear-shaped: A fat woman's tale of love and insanity Page 9
